


This Thing of Ours

by Steadfxst



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Drinking, Fist Fights, Homophobic Language, M/M, Making Out, Propositions, Slurs, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 07:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14995355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steadfxst/pseuds/Steadfxst
Summary: Michael watches him stare into the bottom of the pool. He knows he’s supposed to fucking hate this guy’s guts, and to be honest, he kind of does, but there was also a big part of him that didn’t. There was a tiny part of him that thinks they might’ve been friends in a different life.





	This Thing of Ours

**Author's Note:**

> I kindly ask that you not share this on social media. This fic was written for an anonymous request I received.

Michael takes a drink from his glass. He’s pretty sure it’s his fourth. Regardless, it’s his night off and god knows he needs it. What he doesn’t need is noise. Nor does he need party guests coming up to him and asking him questions he can’t answer without fucking everything up. Lord knows he wants the world to know what he knows, but there’s still a lot of red tape to get through, not to mention due process, even when all signs point to jail for everyone he’s prosecuting. It why he decides to wander out of the party to get a little fresh air, breathe a little.

It’s dark out now. There’s a crescent moon, and the only lamp light comes from the lights at the bottom of the pool. There’s a male figure standing next to it. He walks towards the other soul, curious, as always, to figure out who else had felt like bailing.

He shakes his head when he finally sees who it is, shakes his head. Of course “The Mooch” is here too. He decides to go for humor to show he comes in peace.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing out here all alone?”

It earns him the sound of an aborted laugh. As though he had tried to hold it back but couldn’t quite manage it. Michael counts it as a win.

“Very funny,” Scaramucci replies without turning around. “Fuck off.”

Michael takes that as an invitation to join him. If—Anthony? Tony? What the fuck was he supposed to call him?—wanted him gone, he’d have said so by now. Michael watches him stare into the bottom of the pool. He knows he’s supposed to fucking hate this guy’s guts, and to be honest, he kind of does, but there was also a big part of him that didn’t. There was a tiny part of him that thinks they might’ve been friends in a different life.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Michael says. “Something on your mind?”

He doesn’t know why he asked him that. Maybe the alcohol had loosened his lips more than he’d thought. Maybe he’d been the one blabbing too much tonight, ruining everything. Fuck.

“Since when do you give a fuck what’s on my mind?”

“Because you’ve been busting my balls for weeks, and now I’m here, in the flesh, and you’re not busting my balls even a little bit.”

This earns him a snort. Michael smiles.

“You know, you’d be a pretty fucking good comedian if you weren’t such an asshole.”

“Yeah?” Michael asks.

He takes another step closer. He’s drawn to the man against his will. Scaramucci could be so damn charming when he wanted to. Their shared Italian roots probably had something to do with it, too. He takes another drink from his half-empty glass and puts a warm hand on Scaramucci’s shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, and Michael thinks that’s interesting. Scaramucci’s eyes flick down to his hand and then back up to Michael’s.

“Hey, I appreciate the attention—” he begins.

“I know you do.”

“But, uh,” he continues, shrugging Michael’s hand away. “I’m not some fucking queer, you know. I know a come on when I see one. I mean, do who you want, but I’m not interested.”

Michael blinks and shakes his head.

“How do you _do_  that? Fucking every time. You’ve got all damn charisma you could possibly need. You could have anything you wanted, but you fucking say shit like that. Like a real fucking asshole. And it all flies out the window. This is why nobody likes you.”

“ _Motherfucker_.”

Scaramucci turns, and his right fist makes contact with his jaw with surprising force. It makes Michael stumble and the rest of his scotch sloshes out on the deck of the pool.

Michael quickly rights himself, free hand going to the throbbing sore spot on his jaw. There were black spots floating across his vision. His heart was pounding, and he feels blood rush to his face and maybe to his cock too, but he’s not going to fucking think about that right now.

“Got anything else you wanna say to me?” Scaramucci asks.

Michael swallows, shakes his head once. He had kind of been asking for it with his comment—even though the slur was unforgivable—and he _really_  doesn’t want to start a scene at a party. They both know he can’t afford the bad press or a black eye.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Didn’t have to use a fucking slur.”

Michael works his jaw up and down and side to side. It worked just fine, but it hurt like a son of a bitch. He sits down on one of the cushy lawn chairs, partly because his vision was still spinning and partly to hide his half-chub.

“Jesus, where the hell’d you learn to swing like that?”

Scaramucci visibly swells with pride.

“Does it matter?”

Michael shrugs. Like talking to a brick fucking wall.

“Guess not. Just trying to make conversation.”

He can feel his own pulse in his jaw. He watches Scaramucci watch him rub his jaw. His dick twitches.

“I boxed in high school.”

Michael nods and holds his glass—now only containing ice—against his face.

They’re both silent for a moment, and it’s weird. Michael doesn’t think anyone would believe it if he told them that he and “The Mooch” sat in companionable silence for any length of time at all. It’s strangely pleasant.

“So why’d you come out here, anyway?” Scaramucci asks. He sits down in a lawn chair, too. They’re close enough to touch. “I thought you were looking for a fight or something, but now you’re all melancholy, and it’s fucking weirding me out.”

Michael laughs a little, and it hurts in a good way.

“I needed some air, some space to think. I wasn’t looking for a fight. I wasn’t looking for anyone.”

Michael looks him over again. Maybe it’s the liquor, maybe it’s the adrenaline from the sock to the jaw, maybe it’s something else altogether. He licks his lips; he can’t fucking help himself. Can’t help the pictures that are slowly forming in his mind.

“So you’re blaming fate.”

“Maybe.”

Scaramucci makes a non-committal noise.

Michael puts the glass down on ground.

“I don’t hate you, you know.”

Scaramucci laughs. A real one. One he doesn’t try to hold back or hide.

Michael suddenly darts forward and presses their mouths together. It takes Scaramucci by surprise, and he makes a noise that makes something warm erupt in Michael’s stomach, but he doesn’t pull away. Michael curls his fingers into his thick head of hair, and their mouths fight in a totally new way, until Michael admits defeat and backs away first to get a breath.

“You wanna tell me what the fuck that was about?”

Michael’s mouth opens, but no answer is forthcoming. He pants.

“Typical liberal,” Scaramucci says.

Michael can’t even begin to parse what the hell that means, but right now, he doesn’t particularly want to.

“Let’s get out of here,” Michael suggests.

“ _What?_ ”

Michael swallows and repeats himself.

“I—Let’s go back to my place.”


End file.
